


I'll Chew You Up, and I'll Spit You Out

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 22:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: Lu Han gets as good as he's been giving





	I'll Chew You Up, and I'll Spit You Out

**Author's Note:**

> orginally posted in 2013

Lu Han’s problem, his best friend Yixing insists, though his advice and observation are completely unsolicited, is that he _knows_ he’s good-looking. That he’s used to being what people want. And used to using his boyish, innocent features to get what _he_ wants.

Yixing is only his best friend out of habit. His best friend because Lu Han is too lazy to trade him in for somebody cooler, less judgemental)

He doesn’t really have to try. He’s complacent. It makes it easier for him to become all the more petulant, all the more spoiled, depreciating the shiny toys that fall into his lap.

 

But Lu Han _does_ try.

Lu Han _does_ appreciate.

Lu Han just _wants_ something that Yixing quite wrap his oversized and quaintly romantic head around.

Because what Lu Han wants, what Lu Han pursues in dim clubs under neon lights is boys. Boys with pretty faces and  bright laughs and noncommittal eyes.

He likes the anonymity, the thrill of new tastes, new caresses, new skin that he maps out with his fingertips, his lips, his tongue. Lu Han likes lithe bodies writhing underneath him, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer and harder. He likes heavy eyelids and whimpers vibrating against his lips. He likes sharing body heat, trading moans, tracing hard planes and firm skin. And he likes nuzzling into sweaty flesh in the aftermath, melting into overwhelming pleasure.

And Lu Han likes boys that won’t ask for his number the next morning or call him baby.

He likes deadlines and expiration dates.

Because it’s not about forevers, he tries to tell Yixing. And it’s not about moving mountains or discovering new colors. It’s not about finding your other half or quelling the loneliness in your heart. It’s about getting off. It’s about willing participants. It’s about being young. It’s about restlessness, filling yourself to the brim with new landscapes, new experiences, new skin.

And Lu Han _knows_ he’s supposed to feel lonely, or maybe at least sad. (We’re studying _abroad_ , Lu Han. We’re far away from home. This city is so cold and empty. It’s _okay_ to feel sometimes). And sometimes, _sometimes_ , he does. Sometimes, _sometimes_ , he wonders after futures.  But he finds meaning and companionship elsewhere. In Yixing, in easy friendships with other exchange students, in pretty girls with soft eyes and softer hands who coo over his doll eyes and smooth, non-threatening features

He’s _such_ a Beijing boy, Yixing declares, pronouncing it like a curse, gesturing accusingly with his chopsticks. Lu Han, he argues, wears his sense of entitlement and general disregard for others on his overpriced cotton sleeve. Self-absorbed, easily bored, reckless like a _child_. Nobody’s ever told him “no” because he’s beautiful. It’s really a shame because Lu Han’s actually a nice guy, just spoiled.

And Yixing likes to break things down. Psychologize it to be something ugly and sad. Evidence of  a lonely heart, a sad childhood,  as Lu Han cheapens his soul,  tries to fill a void. (Lu Han smirks at that, and Yixing rolls his eyes, muttering something more about immaturity). But Lu Han knows by the smile dancing at the edge of Yixing’s lips and the teasing glint in his eyes that he only halfway means it,  so he teases back about Yixing’s crude country dreams,  his rural naivete, his heavy, heavy soul. His tendency to fall in love out of habit, or obligation with every pretty girl that smiles his way. Because Yixing is _tender_. Handle with care.

And Lu Han can tell by Yixing’s quirked eyebrow and soft voice that he’s trying to understand, while actively disapproving.

 

Every Friday and Saturday for the past two months, they’ve been performing a ritual, Yixing mumbling past the ramen in his mouth as he scans Lu Han’s outfit,  voices his concern or murmurs his approval. Usually ranging from “Yeah, I’d let you compromise my morals for a night” to “No, I wouldn’t even let you grind up _near_ me, Lu, come _on._ ” There’s a comfort in that routine, though fleeting.

Because Yixing-endorsed outfits meld over sleek alcohol-smooth hips, press against warm bodies,  wind up on ugly dorm carpet while their owner collects more broken moans.

Lu Han isn’t wearing a Yixing-endorsed outfit that Wednesday night. It’s _Wednesday_ , and his hair is messy and rumpled from how many times he’s tugged at the ends. The Hangul itches his throat, and his books are stacked too high, precarious towers that threaten to crush him. He’s _suffocating_ as he shoves his keys and a handful of coins into the pocket of his old sweatpants, informing Yixing in a scream that he’s getting some air.

The city isn’t cold and empty. It’s bright, neon lights blinking against the inky, smoggy sky. It’s filled to the brimmed and overflowing with activity as Lu Han presses clammy hands along the stair railing, padding in old sneakers, older sweats, and an oversized black hoody.

Lu Han isn’t dressed for the occasion, isn’t dressed to impress or cajole (he doesn’t even _match_ ), as he rifles in his pocket for change, tapping restless fingers against the glass of the vending machine. But that’s when he sees him, when he wants to impress and cajole and touch because _holy shit_.

 

He’s perched on one of the cheap top-loading washing machine, swinging his legs and humming absently as he plays with his phone.

His face is one of contrasts. Softness in the roundness of his cheeks, the paleness of his skin, the flutter of eyelashes, the pout of his lip. Sharpness in the darkness of his eyebrows, the piercing cut of his eyes, the angle of his nose, the line of his jaw. The features should be _warring_ , Lu Han thinks dimly, should be competing instead of blending into something so fucking _beautiful_ that Lu Han’s breath literally catches in his throat.

Flustered, Lu Han drops his coins, cursing. The boy releases a small squeak before dark eyes flicker to look _right_ at him. Lu Han isn’t dressed for the occasion, and he isn’t in his element. And the boy is way too gorgeous.

Flushing, bowing his head quickly, Lu Han curves his body forward, pushes the numbers without really looking. 

He’s so rattled he presses F-3 instead of F-6, cheddar popcorn instead of salt and vinegar chips, but he shoves the purchase into his pocket. The boy smiles absently, and Lu Han’s heart stutters in his chest as he bows shyly in return—like a _loser_ , he berates himself—scuttling quickly away

 

Yixing is nose-deep in his own textbooks, eyes lined with faint bruises. He doesn’t have Lu Han’s ease of language acquisition. He has to try twice as hard.

He smiles warily as Lu Han chucks the cheddar popcorn at his face, murmurs a genuine thank you even though it whacks against his chin.

Lu Han lingers, resting his hip against Yixing’s door,  and Yixing squares his shoulders, offers a much softer smile. His dimple peeks out, and Lu Han reaches his forward to press his thumb against it briefly. Yixing’s smile widens into something even more indulgent.  “Yes?”

(Lu Han tries to make note of this. For the moments when Yixing annoys the fuck out of him and he starts to think that he’s only his best friend out of habit, or necessity.  Just a Mandarin-speaking anchor in the swells of Korean)

“There was a boy downstairs,” Lu Han offers, voice dreamy and half-way distracted. “A really pretty boy.”

Yixing nods for him to continue, and Lu Han plays with his hoody strings and smooths one hand down his side.

“Do I—do I look…?”

Yixing bites back a smile. “Yeah, _totally_ , Lu.”

 

And it’s not creepy. He’s just washing his clothes and getting another snack, not _hoping_ or anything the next Wednesday. And it’s not like he pouts at Yixing until the latter relents with an almost bewildered thumbs up, voice incredulous as he asks why Lu Han even needs to look nice. _You’re doing laundry, Lu Han. How vain are you?_

It’s not creepy. It’s not pathetic. It’s not weird to decide on a new routine. It’s _not_.

Besides, there’s nobody in the laundry room this late, so really it’s a matter of convenience. He’s thinking of others, honestly. Also, saving himself the hassle.

And yeah, okay, maybe he rehearses what he’ll say a good 30 times before hand. Makes sure to make each syllable sound clipped, round, natural. But that’s just a good practice. He’s been living in Korea for the past 2 months, and there’s always room for improvement.

He’s not expecting _anything_ , and his heart _doesn’t_ hammer away in his chest when he sees him again.

He’s wearing shorts this time, showcasing thick, pale thighs. And he’s a heady mix of innocent and sexual, liquid eyes burning up Lu Han as he purses his lip and blows a giant pink bubble. Lu Han, dazed, probably much more aroused than is strictly decent in a dorm laundry room,  watches it pop. And Lu Han _has_ to be imagining it, right? The smirk and the playful eyebrow quirk as he slurps the gum back into his mouth.

“I’m Lu Han,” he manages after staring for probably a beat too long.

“Minseok,” the boy offers. His eyes flicker to laundry basket Lu Han is balancing against his hip. And it isn’t just for appearance. He totally needs to do laundry. Does _not_ feel a vague prickling sensation spreading slowly across his skin at the weight of those eyes on him. Does _not_ think about kissing his way up those beautiful thighs. He’s _totally_ just separating his clothes.

“Come here often?” Lu Han jokes a minute in, glancing up as he measures the laundry detergent. Minseok blinks, and Lu Han _has_ to be imagining the teasing glint and dark promise in those brown eyes. It _has_ to be projection, because _fuck_ , Lu Han won’t be able to handle it if it’s real.

“Every week,” he answers with a simple, secret smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes Lu Han dizzy with questions, desperate with urges. It’s the kind of smile that hints at unexplored depths.

 

It’s the kind of smile that keeps Lu Han coming back for 3 weeks. Indulging a _not_ crush, Yixing, fuck, it’s just he has this beautiful face and this lilting voice and I just want to _fuck_ him, I just want to see what he’s like completely _wrecked_ ,  _leave me alone_.

On the first week, he braves a question about Minseok’s age. 21. Just like him.

On the second week, about Minseok’s major. Architecture.

And by the third, he steals one of Yixing’s oversized coffee-date sweaters, makes loud complaining noises and plays surprised as he talks about an imaginary ex-boyfriend and how he might as well as wash it and give it back.

Minseok is folding his clothes in perfect, even piles, small hands making idle work as Lu Han’s voice pitches extra high with nervousness.

Lu Han’s heart is rattling extra hard in his chest, but he has to test the waters. Because this isn’t a safe place. And Lu Han’s got one hand curled around his keys, gripping extra tightly, metal digging into his skin, even as he speaks airily. Just in case. Because Minseok might be small, look non-threatening, but Lu Han has to be careful.

Minseok lets out a huff of breath that might be a chuckle, might be a completely non-committal exhalation.

Luhan hooks his thumbs into a dark-washed belt loops. His confidence deflates further as Minseok levels him with a steady stare. The fact that he’s chewing gum and rolling his socks does nothing to lessen the severity. Lu Han swallows hard and drops his gaze.

“Ex-boyfriends,” Minseok murmurs softly, clicking his tongue.

Lu Han’s heart stutters, and he exhales a little shakily. He slumps back against the washing machine, twining his fingers in the woven fabric of Yixing’s sweater.

“You’re really...hot,” he braves, after Minseok’s resumed his work. He’s on his t-shirts, nimble fingers folding over dark cotton.  And Lu Han stumbles only a little bit over his words.

Minseok hums a question.

So he says it louder, voice wavering. “I think you’re really hot.”

Lu Han looks up shyly from underneath his eyelashes, face hot, and Minseok smiles slowly. “Are you looking for a _new_ boyfriend?” Minseok sing songs. There’s something hard and almost mocking in his tone.

Lu Han swallows down the sudden fear that he miscalculated. “ _Fuck_ no.”

Minseok closes some of the distance between them, regards him carefully for half a beat, raising an eyebrow and biting back a smirk. “Good,” he pronounces, with an air of finality. “Me either.”

Lu Han blinks, and Minseok’s smile is self-satisfied, almost predatory.

Lu Han is dizzy with the possibility as he presses his luck even further. He lolls his head to the side, drawls out his next sentence, one he recites with practiced precision. It’s his closer, guaranteed home run. “You want to get out of here? Make some memories?”

Minseok snorts, and Lu Han’s heart drops to the floor. Shame and self-consciousness suffuse his body, but before they really have a chance to take weight, tease him to tears, Minseok is touching Lu Han’s chin, thumb brushing against his bottom lip. Minseok’s fingers are warm, soft against Lu Han’s hypersensitive flesh, as he urges Lu Han’s eyes upwards.

There’s liquid fire in his eyes. Fathoms of lust and promise swirling in those dark, dark irises.

Lu Han trembles.

Minseok tightens his grip on Lu Han’s chin, voice low, words measured. “I’m gonna finish folding my clothes, Lu _Han_. And you’re gonna finish washing your ex-boyfriend’s ugly sweater. And then you’re gonna come back to my apartment, and we’re gonna fuck. A _lot_. Until you’re crying and begging. We’re gonna make a _lot_ of memories”

Lu Han can’t bite back his whimper, nodding dumbly.

Minseok cups Lu Han’s cheek, his smile suddenly sweet, eyes suddenly soft. He smooths his thumb across Lu Han’s eyebrow.

It’s heady.

 

The first kiss is soft, slow, sweet. Minseok tastes like bubblegum, and it’s Lu Han that deepens it, lips parting, tongue pressing as he digs his thumbs into the soft flesh of Minseok’s cheeks.

The second is an apology, as Minseok slams him against the wall, collects his groan of pain and then something harder and hotter, painting the inside of his mouth. “You’re so fucking hot,” Lu Han pants, voice strained, tongue thick and stumbling, accent more pronounced as Minseok slides his fingers under his shirt, teases along the smooth skin. Minseok smirks against his mouth, presses hard into Lu Han’s hip bone.

The third a goodbye as Minseok moves to mouth along his neck, lick along his jawline, suck at his collarbone. Lu Han’s breath is a mess, and his fingers are heavy as they weave through Minseok’s soft, black strands.

The shadows play harsh along the contours of Minseok’s face as he tugs at Lu Han’s shirt off to  swirl his tongue around a nipple, chucking at the way that Lu Han whimpers. He sucks teasingly, humming in his throat, as his hands trickle down to Lu Han’s waist, fingers fluttering.

Lu Han’s head lolls back to crash against the wall again, as Minseok works his pants open, cups him through the soft cotton of his boxers. Lu Han barely has a chance to feel the pain blooming at his skull or  indignation at the fact that Minseok is still fully dressed before Minseok is tightening his grip, sliding his hand achingly slow as he urges Lu Han to get really, really hard for him and tell him just exactly how he likes it.

The words catch in his throat, and the syllables become less round, slur embarrassingly. So Lu Han has to settle for communicating with needy fingers, pressing hard into the curve of Minseok’s ass to say what his tongue is suddenly too heavy to pronounce.

Minseok chuckle blows hot against his collarbone, and Lu Han shivers, rolls upwards into his too-loose grip. Minseok flicks his wrist, skates his fingers along his balls.

“Like that?” he murmurs, and Lu Han whimpers, bucking harder, back arching.

“More,” he moans. “Please, Minseok, please.”

Minseok twists his fingers into Lu Han’s hair, tugs his head to side to bite at his neck as he slithers his other hand down the front of his boxers, gripping what he can in his tiny, tiny hand, swiping his thumb along the sensitive head to collect the moisture there. Lu Han’s knees buckle, back scraping against the cheap dorm room stucco. Until Minseok _strokes_ again and Lu Han’s entire body bows.

“Bed,” Minseok rasps, sucking on his earlobe, his voice damp and husky

He leads him back, whispering filthy nothings in his ear, and Luhan’s slumps back on the edge of  Minseok’s mattress, licking his lips and whining for more as Minseok turns on the light, pauses to loom over him. And he’s already pliant, already leaning forward to nuzzle the tent in Minseok’s pants, when Minseok laughs, grabbing the sensitive hairs at the nape of Lu Han’s neck in a soft caress.

“Later,” he promises, brushing the thumb of his other hand against Lu Han’s bottom lip. Lu Han’s lips part slowly as he exhales another shaky ‘please.’

Minseok tugs his head back, sucks on his adam’s apple as he straddles him. He grinds forward once, denim-rough erection scraping against Lu Han’s, and he doesn’t know whether to moan from pleasure or pain as he digs his fingers into cotton-covered biceps, taking Minseok with him as he falls back into the mattress.

A pinch at his thigh and Lu Han is stripping off his boxers, scooting up the bed, smooth skin rippling and soft moans echoing as he fists himself to relieve the bone deep ache. Minseok looks at him from his position at his nightstand, groaning.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he praises, crawling over Lu Han’s body, his voice as hot and messy as the kiss he presses to the side of Lu Han’s neck. “So fucking hot, you know that?”

Lu Han drapes his arms over Minseok’s shoulders, turns his head to engage him in a kiss so sloppy and desperate, he only vaguely registers the click of a bottle opening and the fact that Minseok is still fully dressed until he feels warm fingers skittering along his thighs.

And _oh_ , Lu Han pulls back, gasping, tensing briefly. His mind suddenly hazy with the possibility, with the thrill and terror of unexplored territory. Minseok’s "Is this okay?" is a whisper vibrating against Lu Han's throat. An afterthought or a quiet reassurance, he isn't sure. He exhales shakily, nodding slowly, and Minseok kisses his neck softly, distractingly, as he urges Lu Han’s thighs open.

Lu Han’s done this for others, but he rolls his head to the side, gasps and then bites down on his lip at the foreign sensation. It’s not painful, just slightly uncomfortable. And Minseok pants more praises in his ears as he works another finger inside. Tells him he’s doing so good. That he’s so tight. That he’s beautiful. (Lu Han isn’t beautiful. Beautiful is for girls or babies. Lu Han isn’t a baby. He isn’t a girl. He’s hot, sexy, manly). That he’s _aching_ to be buried deep inside

Lu Han breathes through his mouth, focuses on the strain of Minseok’s voice, the heat of his breath, the brush of his lips as he works him open slowly. Lu Han tries to melt back, as Minseok’s delicate fingers drag along even more delicate flesh. And then Minseok shifts his fingers and _oh_.

Lu Han’s mouth opens in a long drawn out moan. His entire body jerks.  “There,” he manages, voice garbled with pleasure. Minseok works another finger inside, presses deliberately. Lu Han sees stars—fucking supernovas—as he sobs, body arching toward the motion. Minseok teases the spot once, twice, thrice, and Lu Han finds himself thrashing, babbling in Mandarin, begging for more please more.

Minseok curses reverently against his shoulder, something along the lines of “fuck Lu Han _fuck_ ” as he desperately tears off his clothes. He rolls on a condom, lubes himself up slowly and hovers over Lu Han, erection slick along Lu Han’s tummy.

The kiss he coaxes out of Lu Han is whisper-soft, and his fingers stroke soothingly along his scalp. Lu Han remembers where those fingers have been and undulates restlessly, flushing.

The shadows play tricks with the contours of Minseok’s face again, make him look impossibly young, impossibly innocent as he whispers, “Is this your first time?”

“First time like this,” Lu Han breathes back.

’ll let you fuck me the next time,” Minseok promises solemnly, kissing his nose softly. “And I’ll let you set the pace _this_ time.” He drags one of Lu Han’s hand to rest on Minseok’s waist. “Grab my ass. I’ve seen you looking, I know you like it,” he smiles. “I’ll go slow. Just pull me harder if you want me harder.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Lu Han whines brokenly as Minseok slides in because it fucking _hurts_. Minseok kisses him quiet, murmurs again about how beautiful and good he’s being. About how _amazing_ he feels squeezing Minseok’s cock. And Lu Han forces himself to relax, focuses on the details. On Minseok’s breath fanning across his face. On his fingers molding bruises into Lu Han’s hips. On the husky moan he releases as he rocks gently forward.

He rubs circles into Lu Han’s hipbones and swirls his tongue along the trembling skin of Lu Han’s neck as he swivels carefully. Lu Han’s head lolls back, baring more skin for Minseok’s soft, soft lips. “Tell me when,” Minseok pants, arms trembling.

Lu Han splays his fingers across Minseok’s ass, squeezing hard. Minseok groans, arching towards Lu Han’s caress as he pulls out so, so slowly before pressing back in.

At Lu Han’s prompting, Minseok takes him with slow, deep, soul-quacking thrusts. Lu Han’s erection is hot and heavy as it bounces between their bodies with every descent, smacks against their tummies, and Lu Han bites on his lower lip, strokes himself as Minseok begins moaning Lu Han’s name.  Every plunge forward is punctuated with a kiss to Lu Han’s eyelids, an experimental rotation.

When he shifts just _right_ , couples it with the scrape of his teeth against Lu Han’s jawline, Lu Han finds himself sobbing in Mandarin and then just digging his blunt nails into Minseok’s ass, begging him to go faster, harder. Tears swim in his vision, and it’s so fucking _much_. Lu Han doesn’t have the presence of mind to feel ashamed of how debauched he looks, with tears streaming out of his eyes as he begs for more more more.

One of his Minseok’s hands flutters down to ghost over Lu Han’s hip and, he tries to make himself look extra beautiful—widening his teary eyes, softening his eyebrows—as he begs him to touch him _please_ , he wants Minseok to touch him.

Minseok groans as he fists him tightly, pumping hard, pumping fast, pumping to match the mind-numbing pace of his hips.

And Lu Han whimpers loudly, writhing desperately, feeling feeling _feeling_ because that’s all he can do. He presses his chin to his own knee and then bites down hard because of so much, so much. He just needs, Minseok, please just please. He’s almost there. Please. Just take him there. Please.

His entire body tenses when Minseok twists his wrist, thrust hard right _there_. And the pleasure becomes too much, crests as it washes over him. He’s drowning in it. Lu Han comes in heavy pulses, crying out a broken intonation of his Minseok’s name.

“You’re so beautiful, so fucking beautiful,” Minseok praises, cradling his head. It _aches_. It sounds like a blessing. As his hips become more erratic, a broken staccato.

Body limp, Lu Han takes everything the man has to offer, swallows every filthy moan, until Minseok is coming, too. Tensing and crashing forward on his chest, trembling from the very force of it.

“Just give me a second to recover,” he murmurs against Lu Han’s collarbone. “And then we can start again.”

Lu Han hums his approval.


End file.
